The “Deceased” Donna Chapter 04
John dragged me into an emergency room.
“She’s Rh-negative! Draw from her!”
I tried to struggle, but two nurses pressed my shoulders down.
I heard myself say, “John, it hurts.”
John stood off to the side, his fingers curling into fists. But he didn’t tell them to stop.
“It’ll be over soon.”
By the time they had drawn six hundred milliliters, my vision was going black.
The doctor walked over to John. “Don, Riva is out of immediate danger.”
John’s tense shoulders finally relaxed.
He turned, saw how ashen my face had gone, and crouched down to take my hand.
“Mona… I did this to earn a little grace from God, for our child too.”
“There’s too much blood on my hands. My sins are too heavy. Even if it weren’t Riva in that bed, I couldn’t have just watched someone die.”
I nodded numbly. “I understand.”
“Stay and look after her. I want to go home and rest.”
John frowned. “You’re my Donna. Of course I’ll go with you.”
He bent his head and gently blew on the puncture wound on my arm, then took my hand and walked me home.
But halfway there, we ran into Riva.
“Mona, thank you for donating blood. Let me treat you both to dinner as a small gesture.”
Before I could open my mouth, John had already agreed.
The restaurant was an intimate Italian place. When the owner saw John, he cleared out every other table.
John ordered with practiced ease. “Riva can’t handle spice—keep the sauce on the side, and go easy on the salt. For dessert, tiramisu.”
Then he slid Riva’s rejected mango mousse in front of me.
“She won’t eat this. You have it.”
I looked down at the mango mousse and smiled faintly.
“John, I’m allergic to mango.”
His hand froze in the air.
“Mona, I’ve just been so busy lately.”
Busy with what, I wondered.
Probably with all those meticulous plans in his notebook—the ones about harvesting my baby’s cord blood.
When John went to the restroom, only Riva and I were left at the table.
Slowly, she tugged her collar down. The Saint Jude medallion rested against her collarbone.
“Mona, tell me. If a woman is deceived once, that’s stupidity. What is it when she’s deceived twice?”
I set down my glass.
“It’s none of your business.”
Riva’s eyes went cold.
The next second, she yanked the medallion off and hurled it to the floor, then slapped herself twice across the face.
“John! Mona broke my medallion! She said I was trying to seduce you, and she wanted to ruin my face…”
John saw the red marks on her cheek and, without a moment’s thought, spun around and shoved me aside.
My back slammed into the corner of the table. The pain whited out my vision.
“Mona, how could you be so vicious as to strike a sick woman?!”
In that instant, the restaurant lights, the sound of shattering glass, the stares of the waitstaff—all of it dissolved into gunfire on a war-torn street.
I remembered my ex-husband Carr pushing me out of the car.
I remembered crawling through the rubble on streets carpeted with broken stone.
I remembered John walking toward me against the sound of gunshots, grabbing my hand, telling me he would never abandon me.
But now—that same hand had shoved me aside for Riva.
I was trembling all over. Tears fell before I could stop them.
At last, John seemed to panic.
He crouched down, reaching for me. “Mona, I didn’t mean it. I was just angry for a second—”
Riva’s eyes reddened; her voice turned plaintive.
“Mona, I know I’ve wronged you before, but the illness is my punishment now.”
“If you hate me so much, then I’ll just die!”
With that, she turned and bolted for the road outside the restaurant.
John glanced at me.
Then he stood up and chased after her.
I sat there on the floor and, suddenly, I laughed.
The servers tried to help me up. I waved them off, got to my feet, and called an Uber home.
On the way, an iMessage from John came in.
*”Mona, don’t be angry. Riva is an important partner for the family. I gave her the medallion for the sake of future cooperation.”*
*”I didn’t mean to hit you. I misjudged the movement. She’s not well—don’t hold it against a sick woman.”*
*”I’ll make it up to you when I get home.”*
Feeble excuses. A dismissive tone.
Every word confirmed that John simply didn’t consider the harm he’d caused me worth thinking about.
He was certain I loved him. Certain I would forgive him.
But how could a woman whose heart had already died still love?
I watched the streets of New York rush past the window and murmured softly:
“John, I hope tomorrow, when you see my body, you can be just this calm.”